Prompt 002: "How about Wheatley trying a new food and, you know sometimes you'll bite something and get that flavor shock up the sides of your jaw? Yeah, he has to deal with that and thinks his mouth is short-circuiting."

"This hurts. Oh, this really hurts. I—I don't know how you deal with this. Is this something that happens to everyone?"

Wheatley is curled up in a heap of lanky limbs on the kitchen floor, swathed in an Aperture orange jumpsuit, arms crossed over his stomach. It feels like something is gnawing away at his insides, something he's never felt during the time he inhabited a personality core, and he desperately wishes it would stop.

Chell is ignoring him, tending to the sizzling something-or-other on the stove. It has a thick, savory smell, and Wheatley's mouth keeps filling with fluid that he has to swallow down.

"Are you listening? Because this is important. I think I'm dying here. Really, I'm in a lot of pain. And it does not feel pleasant, in case you were wondering. Actually, come to think of it, I don't think dying is meant to feel pleasant. I mean, not much incentive to keep at it, is there? If dying feels better than living. Probably supposed to hurt."

Chell kneels down beside him, notepad in hand. "You are not dying," she writes. "You have to eat to get energy." Her mouth is curved in this I can't believe I brought this drama queen back with me smirk.

"No energy?" Wheatley lets a loud exhale escape his nose. "Well, I suppose humans have to get energy from somewhere. Being not plugged in and all. Or having batteries."

He watches her with his cheek pressed against the cool floor as she strides across the kitchen. He's quite fascinated with her legs.

Chell brings two plates to the small table tucked against the wall, one for each side, and then returns to the stove. After flipping one of the dials, she lifts the pan with one mittened hand and takes it with her. She glances over her shoulder and motions for him to join her.

In spite of the deadly pain roiling in his belly, Wheatley clumsily lifts himself off the floor and stumbles to one of the chairs. Chell dishes out out a serving of eggs and bacon onto his plate with a spatula. As she's sliding the rest onto hers, Wheatley manages to work his new fingers well enough to pick up a piece of bacon and stuff it into his mouth.

It's immediate: saliva wells up and there's a sudden heady burst of flavor, something other than air, like someone's slugged him in the jaw. Electricity seems to web up the sides of his mouth and then he's spitting it up, shouting, "Oh god, oh god, this doesn't have water, does it? I can't have water, I'll short out, I'll—"

And then he's being pressed into her shirt, muffled, with her hand gently gripping the back of his head.

"Mmph—what—what are you doing, I'm dying!"

She lets go and he's allowed to breathe. Gulping down air, heart pumping liquid panic, Wheatley wraps his arms around himself and small whimpering noises force themselves out of his throat.

Chell pats his shoulder and points to his previous statement on the notepad: "You're not dying." And then she writes, "Can't short out. Not a robot."

"Are you sure? Absolutely positive? Because I'm trusting you here. You've got all the human experience between the two of us."

"Eat," she writes. "You'll feel better."

"All right," he says, trying to pick up another piece of bacon. "But if I short out, I'll be saying I told you so. Well, considering you can reboot me. If that's possible. But if not, then just imagine I said I told you so."

Wheatley eats, feels better, and definitely does not short out.